Blood Thicker than Water
by ancientandmostnoble
Summary: "The Blacks are like that. We let our own flame consume our mind. We do great things, terrible things. And then we die." "That's not your fate, Dromeda."
1. Preface

**Disclaimer:** Everything that gives substance to this fanfiction belongs to J.K. Rowling's astounding brains, which gave birth to the series that we all came to know as Harry Potter.

**Blood Thicker than Water**

**Preface**

I have always been a scientific person - a fact about myself that will become self-explanatory as this memoir progresses. This scientific impulse compels me to begin this account of my life with a challenge to address.

_Blood is thicker than water _- do I agree with this statement? The saying originates from a German proverb, and I have had to confront its significance repeatedly throughout my life. The memoir is an attempt to reach a conclusion on this matter.

I do have an ulterior motive for writing an account of my life. There are, sadly, very few wizards and witches still left who survived the two Wars. I am one of them, and having been so involved in possibly the biggest conflict in magical history, I felt at once compelled and reluctant to share my knowledge with the actual public. I received numerous requests from publishing houses and magazines: they were all interested in my perspective, and, obviously, in the fact that my daughter was part of the Advance Guard in the second Order of the Phoenix and a war hero from the Battle of Hogwarts in May 1998. I also suspect that they were intentioned to gauge information about my grandson Teddy Lupin, considering he was partly raised by Harry Potter, his godfather. Many claimed that it was my duty to divulge the truth about the two wars; the public had the right to know. Duty, however, is not what drove me here.

My life, and those belonging to all who ever experienced times of civil strife, has been consistently devastated by loss and pain. I only hope that this memoir will be relatable to the victims of a cruel world, a world that, luckily, will become only a dim memory for this new generation.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** This is the preface to a story I've been working on for five years. I need to give thanks to the authors of fanfictions that inspired me, the top three being: DeepDownSlytherin's "A Keen Observer", dress without sleeves' "Druella Black's Guide to Womanhood" and Vera Rozalsky's "In Which the Princess Rescues the Dragon".


	2. Toujours Pur

**Blood Thicker than Water**

**Toujours Pur**

I was born on a smoldering afternoon in late May, 1954. How do I know that I was born during an unexpected heat wave?

"Oh, Andromeda - I went through the twelve trials of Heracles in the lowest pit of hell to give birth to you," Mother promptly told me every opportunity she got.

Her bitter tone reminded me clearly enough that I was born disappointingly female. The only thing that my parents, Cygnus Black and Druella Rosier Black, had in common was a desire to provide a male Black heir to the family line; this might explain their strained relationship, considering how that wish never came true.

I have the suspicion that my parents reacted the worst at my birth out of the other two that all occurred in the span of four years. They welcomed Bellatrix, the first-born, with knowing indifference - the Blacks' mediwitch had informed the newly-wed couple of the child's gender long before she was born. After Bella's birth, Mother went through reproductive complications, and thus she and Father cherished my conception as their last opportunity. To be blunt, I shattered the dream that united my parents. Narcissa came as a completely unexpected, unthought-of surprise. Mother had accepted that she would no longer bear children, and furthermore, she and Father had gotten over their disappointment with me, so my younger sister's birth was simply welcomed.

The Black Mansion stood gargantuan and gothic in the middle of nature in Cambridgeshire. The Black legacy derives from the Middle Ages; therefore the Black Mansion in Cambridgeshire, Grimmauld Place in London and the Black Manor in Edinburgh all bore a gothic structure and style in decoration that has persevered for generations.

After Bellatrix died and Rodolphus received life-imprisonment in Azkaban, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy tried to take possession of the Black Mansion, in vain. It was eventually exposed to Muggles as a historical house open to the public.

The mansion consisted of a stark, severe-looking building with more lugubrious chandeliers than windows, surrounded by a labyrinthine expanse of vegetation and located in near proximity of a beautiful, clear lake populated by swans during the autumn season.

Bella, Cissy and I grew up living two different worlds: one of obedience and the other of home-made leisure. The life of obedience consisted of, first of all, our education. I cannot remember the number of tutors that my parents paid handsomely to teach us the French, German and Italian language, in addition to literature, mathematics, history and genealogy.

Logic has always come naturally in my head, but the tampered version of wizarding history and the dull, statistical nature of genealogy bored me. Defying sleepiness during those lessons was a tough task, but Cissy seemed to be actually interested in memorising pureblood magical families by heart. Bella, instead, thrived in sports and in music. While Cissy and I lagged along our piano and harp lessons, Bella managed to effortlessly pump life and zest in the notes from her violin.

However, the most important part of our education involved the art of etiquette, its lessons provided for us by Mother and, occasionally, Aunt Walburga. We were taught about curtseying, the perfect sitting and standing postures and even the exact amount of muscle work required to smile politely in public, all by the age of three. I had the most difficult time mastering etiquette out of my sisters: I always seemed to forget the correct movement required to pour tea, and I faced the worst problem at dinnertime, what with all the forks, knives, spoons and plates involved. Once, Mother sent me to my bedroom under the supervision of one of the house-elves for having rested an elbow on the table while supper was being served.

It could be that part of the life I have described above may horrify some readers; such old-fashioned ways are, after all, long gone now. However, our other world was kept alive too, that of quiet recreation, which made up for all the rules that dictated our childhood.

The Black Mansion, despite its gloomy exterior (and interior too, to be honest), was a place particularly fertile for childish imagination. Bella and I wrote silly plays that we enacted, often joined by Sirius and Regulus too. The dark nooks and corners, the never-ending twists and turns of corridors, and the thick vegetation outdoors provided a rich variety of locations to stage dramatic games and plays. Sirius, Regulus and Bella played the male characters, whereas Cissy and I just had to be rescued and carried away by one of them, sometimes empowered by two or three lines to recite.

Growing up, I gained an internal restlessness that attached me to Bella further than I already was. We spent days exploring our environment, discovering some hidden passageways and a couple of undiscovered Black heirlooms, some of which might have dated back to the mansion's foundation itself.

But what truly connected us was the independent streak ingrained in our mind after years of being left alone to fend for ourselves, when boredom and apathy settled in the Black Mansion like fine dust.

Moreover, there was precocity in perception in the minds of both of us. This is best exemplified that time when Bella was twelve and I was nine, and we were looking for the best place in the house to choose as a setting for our newest play. It was right in the middle of a dinner party, and we were bored. Cissy had retreated to her bedroom early, as she was, yet again, suffering from one of her frequent drops of blood pressure. Sirius, Regulus, Barty Crouch Jr, Lucius Malfoy and all the other male children of the guests were using Uncle Orion's ivory wand-holder to make bubbles sprout out of its end, an activity that was about to irk Bella to an unsafe level.

As innocent as a nine year old could be, I stood frozen and inexplicably washed over by terror and disgust as I watched my father and Anastasia Burke hurrying into the cloak closet. I remember Bella catching up with me, resting a hand on my shoulder, asking,

"What's wrong, Meddie?"

And I know that she had seen what I had, because her hand clawed at my shoulder to a point I almost cried out. I will never forget her gradually slackening grip and her low whisper,

"How about the attic, Meddie?"

We never talked about our father's adulterous behaviour, although we both understood.

Taboos between Bella and I were created even earlier on. There was a game we used to play outdoors on summer days, in which we pretended to be curse-breakers on a mission to kill the Chimaera terrorising the island of Mykonos. The game often led us to argue, because we both wanted to play the wizard's role, since neither of us wanted to ride Diana sidesaddle.

Diana was the purebred Arabian Mare of our childhood. Father, Bella and I fell in love with this animal at first sight - its muscular, sinuous-shaped body was of a midnight-black, and the deep, dark, intelligent eyes told more than words. Whereas I spent hours brushing its thick, luxuriant mane, Bella preferred to ride Diana, and I remember watching her fully galloping at age nine, looking like an Amazon. She sometimes pushed Diana way too hard.

"You don't have enough faith in Diana, Meddie," were her words whenever I worried that the horse showed signs of fatigue after a ride.

It was when Diana finally collapsed that I saw Bella's dark side for the first time. She was galloping at a dangerous speed, her average speed. Father flaunted his pride towards his first-born daughter's natural talent in horse-back riding, and Mother simply couldn't be bothered to scold "her every little rebellion".

So Bella was riding like the wind, when, slowly, in a decelerating motion that filled me with dread, Diana faltered and finally fell. I remember the fear that jolted through me at seeing Diana and Bella slumping on the ground; Bella stood back up. Diana didn't. She looked pathetic, foam frothing from her mouth, unable to breathe, looking up at us with dark eyes.

I was so used to react in the same way as my older sister that what occurred right after the fall traumatised me. While fighting against the tears simmering behind my lids, Bella moved, and what I saw frightened me: her eyes looked close to popping out of their sockets, and her mouth was twisted in ugly hatred. She began kicking Diana's side with strength rare in nine-year old females; when she started throwing stones at it, I impulsively dove in to shield the animal with my own body.

I woke up snuggled in the covers of my four-poster, fenced by Bella and Cissy, wounded on the side of my head.

"Diana died?" I asked.

Cissy avoided my eyes and Bella stared at me without emotion as she said,

"Never mention it again." Nobody dared to rekindle Diana's memory again, but I can't help but wonder if Bella's relationship with Diana, as well as that with Voldemort, was the only commitments she took in life. I have a nagging suspicion that Diana's failure marked the moment when Bella's disgust for the ordinary, weak nature in everyone and everything mortal finally emerged.

Cissy and I shared a very different bond. She shone like the gem of the Black family, Father's _little princess _and Mother's pride and joy. Contrary to belief, Bella and I weren't jealous at all. She represented our own angel, the baby sister we protected and spoilt. Cissy certainly looked like a cherub, with her soft, blonde curls, her delicate widow's peak, the blue eyes and porcelain skin. She took after Mother, a Rosier in looks.

Being only a year apart, we were naturally close. Having a calmer temperament than Bella, Cissy and I spent much of our childhood together, usually talking. She became my most trusted confidante, and unlike with Bella, we told each other everything. I was strangely at my ease with Cissy, for her sweet and patient disposition refreshed me in its predictability.

The two years without Bella at the mansion, the two years in which she preceded us to Hogwarts, Cissy and I felt vulnerable and lost; our mutual company and dependence grew.

"Meddie, let's play with the new dollhouse," she would say, and we would plan a whole family history for the dolls, which would inevitably end up being an account of our own life in the Black Mansion. Without Bella home, I found myself being less outdoors, because of Cissy's fragile health and incompatibility with the unpredictable weather.

Once I started attending Hogwarts, I began noticing that Cissy sometimes reminded me of a mannequin. She seemed to wear whatever side one wanted to see in her; the gentle-mannered, soft-spoken beauty in front of our parents, the adoring, uncomplaining eager-to-please sister with Bella, the attentive and note-taking student with our tutors and the trustworthy bearer of secrets with me.

She was only nine when, on an ordinary day, she disappeared from my sight for some hours. I grew anxious about her whereabouts, because Cissy _never _deliberately provoked worry in others. I found her sprawled at the bottom of a staircase, her arm clearly broken, enormous purple bruises blooming all across her legs and arms. But what struck me were her vacant eyes, staring straight at the grandfather clock.

"What have you done, Cissy?" I hissed, forgetting all about manners and tumbling down the stairs without grace whatsoever.

"I fell all the way down here," she replied in a monotone. I thought she had hit her head hard. Those bruises must have taken ages to spread like that, but I overlooked the fact that she hadn't called for help until I found her, hours later.

"I've been trying to cry, Meddie. Why can't I cry like Regulus did when he broke his finger that time Sirius shoved him?" I just stood there, left without words.

I saw Bella shed tears from time to time, always out of uncontrolled rage. But Cissy, she never cried. She might have done sometime past, but she remains forever cold and dry-eyed in my memory of her.


	3. Hogwarts

**Blood Thicker than Water**

**Hogwarts**

Bella was about to start her third year at Hogwarts when I bought my first wand, the only wand I would ever use. I was escorted to Diagon Alley by one of the two family house-elves in chief, Polly, and I clearly remember the awe that struck me as soon as I stepped into that famous wizarding location, never visited until then.

The Black family believed in isolation rather than in the increasingly popular ideal of expanding one's horizons, and the extent of travelling done by the Black children - my sisters, Sirius, Regulus and I - was confined to the three Black residences in England and the castles, palaces, mansions and manors of the pureblood families that belonged to the elite. Thus I was mesmerized beyond the norm when I first visited Diagon Alley, at the age of eleven.

I remember feeling disillusioned standing in Ollivander's shop, beholding the complete chaos within: a myriad of boxes stacked haphazardly behind the rickety counter, floor coated with dust dating centuries, windows opaque from years of neglect...

However, my doubts on Ollivander's capability as a wand-maker dissolved as soon as he spoke to me.

"The second-born of the Black family, I presume. Your sister Bellatrix before you was chosen by a very powerful wand, young girl. 12¾ inches, walnut, dragon heartstring, unyielding. A powerful wand indeed, capable of ruthless prodigy."

I didn't really question the reason behind his ability not to blink, ever; I didn't wonder too much on how he remembered my sister's wand in such detail, despite it was bought two years ago. However, those words were enough to stir respect in me for this fragile-looking man with glassy, foggy eyes. It was the first time I did not treat someone involved in trade with contempt.

After much testing and a few explosions later, a wand chose me: 12 inches, mahogany, dragon heartstring, rigid. The rush of magic that ran through me at finding the right wand felt like going back to a home very different from the cold Black Mansion.

* * *

I never second-guessed myself on the matter of which house I belonged to. Being brought up with firm beliefs and rules, I was taught that Slytherin was the only house in which those with blood as pure as mine could be sorted into. Another option was a foreign, _alien _idea for us of the Black family. The rare times our parents or Bella would discuss the other houses, I only noticed that Griffyndor was talked about with an air of disapproval; Hufflepuff was treated with derision and Ravenclaw as a _very_ last resort. We children were sent to Hogwarts with the full conviction that we would belong to one house, and one house only.

"Bella, how does the school decide where to sort me?" I asked my sister, as we sat in one of the train compartments of the Hogwarts Express, on my first day of school. This one particular compartment was half-empty, and while back then I thought it was only normal that we, the Blacks,would be left in peace, I believe that it was the three other people sitting with me that prevented others from disturbing us. Bellatrix was lounging over two seats, her head resting against the window and her feet propped up on the arm of the seat. Rabastan Lestrange was staring out of the window and Lucius Malfoy was reading a book next to him.

Rabastan was the youngest of the Lestrange sons, and he held the prestigious title of Bella's only friend. Of course she could have had as many friends as she would have liked, if only she made the effort. Her precocious beauty and talent, as well as her lineage, impressed even the older students. However, she and Rabastan seemed to have clicked in a way that both puzzled and pleased our families. They were two very similar spirits: unpredictable, brilliant, but lazy, and politically aware from a young age. However, she was the leader and he was the follower. That didn't mean that Bella bullied him, or that Rabastan trailed after her like a wimp. It was just the dynamic of their friendship, or whatever it was that united them. Sometimes I heard people teasing Rabastan, about how he was bossed around by a girl. However, I have always suspected that there was a deeper motivation in him that prompted such obedience. It eventually turned out that I had not been wrong.

Lucius – well, I had met him countless times on various occasions, usually at tea and dinner parties. Since he was my same age, and we were to be classmates, my family particularly recommended him as a potential friend. We never showed each other anything other than mild dislike. He was one of those champions at manipulation, maneuvering situations and circumstances like he owned them, even at that young age. I often wondered if he had ever lived the innocence of childhood. I saw right through his pleasant manners and the soft, slightly drawling and insinuating sound of his voice.

And he disliked me back. I have always been impressed by his discerning eye, which penetrated right through my perfect Black child armor and noticed those budding seeds of doubt in me, my doubts on what _he_ believed in with all his heart – blood purity.

"There's an old barmy little talking hat that can read the mind of the student who wears it. He picks out your most prominent traits and decides which house suits you best," answered Bella in a slur, her eyes closed and an arm dangling from the headrest. She suddenly opened one eye and stared at me,

"Why are you asking this, Meddie? Why do you care how you're going to be sorted, when you know you'll be in Slytherin no matter what?"

I remember Lucius looking up from his book and into my eyes, his expression unreadable. He was only eleven, but, ironically enough, he was the first one to see me for who I was.

Of course I was sorted into Slytherin, but I went through waves of fear, dread and shame in the process. The hat had taken an unnaturally long time to decide.

_"Hello. You come from a rather ancient family, don't you, little girl?"_

_"Yes, I'm from the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black."_

_"Very well, very well. I detect pride in you. Pride indoctrinated in you by your family, I can see you're not proud by nature. You certainly are a rational, logical piece of mind. Perhaps Ravenclaw? Hm, you do possess self-discipline. Not exactly the boldest out there. Not a typical Gryffindor. I could not put you in Hufflepuff; you have few words to share, and there is aloofness in you that would cast you as an outsider in that house. Slytherin would be perfect, and yet… There is something that bothers me. You are not like your sister Bellatrix, with firm beliefs in what your family advocates. But I see that the outside traits of your personality are well suited for Slytherin. So don't worry, little girl, there is no need to plead like that. SLYTHERIN!"_

I saw Bellatrix smiling complacently, clapping her hands with the rest of them, but all throughout the feast I could not shake off the suspicious looks Lucius sent me as soon as he himself joined the Slytherin table.

* * *

So my life at Hogwarts did not begin as smoothly as I expected, but my first year of school was the only one out of seven that wasn't troubled in some way. I was well accepted in my house, where everyone treated me with respect, even though it was probably only because I resembled and was related to Bella. I wrote to Cissy every week, long parchments describing my new life. I was never very social, so the contents of my letters mostly consisted of what I thought about the lessons.

_18th October 1965_

_Dear Cissy,_

_I miss you so much. I read your last letter, and I know that you want me to write more about the people here, about what Bella and Rabastan are up to, about my roommates, about Lucius Malfoy and all the other people you think are so interesting but are not. I can't find anything worth writing about them. Bella and Rabastan are always together, and they sometimes let me join them playing cards in the common room, but they mostly keep to themselves, and are always talking in whispers together. Sometimes Lucius joins their conversation, and I find it so unfair, Cissy. That slimy little idiot is allowed to talk to them, but when it comes to me, Bella tells me that I'm too young to butt in and that I should go play with Clothilde and Guinevere. You know what, Cissy? I think that Lucius Malfoy is not really twelve as he claims to be. I think he's secretly fourteen like Bella and Rabastan, but he pretends to be younger just to be able to __always__ look at me the way I described to you in my last letter. I know he enjoys scaring me. _

_But you can't imagine how wonderful the classes are! Yesterday Professor Slughorn praised me in front of the class, and said that I made the best student-brewed boil-cure potion he has seen in a decade! I enjoy Potions so much; it's so relaxing and soothing. Sometimes Professor Slughorn lets me use the dungeons to make potions he says I'm perfectly capable to make. Oh, in fact, he invited me to this club he's made, called the Slug Club, where Bella belongs, as well as Lucius Malfoy. I think he's one of those people Mother calls 'social climbers': there are a lot of students with famous names in the club. _

_I'm struggling a little bit in Transfiguration. Professor McGonagall is rather strict, but I cope. Bella, who you know is a genius at Transfiguration, says that in Potions you're either born with the talent or you're bad at it, whereas in Transfiguration, it's more to do with concentration rather than intuition. _

_The grounds here are beautiful, Cissy. I swear, every time I look towards the Forbidden Forest, I expect a unicorn to come out. It's really that beautiful. And the lake reminds me so much of home. _

_I wish you were here. I love you. Yours,_

_Meddie._

My younger sister never failed me in her letters. She knew how to listen to me best and always had comments and eager questions to ask me. Sometimes, though, she wrote words that conveyed an emptiness that even an eleven year old like me could perceive. I often thought of her, alone and lonely in her room, playing with the dollhouse. I could not even be relieved to know that Sirius and Regulus visited frequently, because I knew how Sirius and Cissy just could not get along. Her absence was just as tangible as Bella's had been in the Black Mansion for two years, and no matter how much my so-called friends, Clothilde Yaxley and Guinevere Bulstrode, tried, their attempts at befriending me only made Cissy's missing even that more obvious.

_9th June 1966_

_Dear Meddie,_

_Your last letter made me laugh so much. Unfortunately Aunt Walburga and Mother were in the same room while I was reading it, and I got such a scolding for 'making unbecoming noises like a dirty-blooded commoner'. It's at times like this that I wish with all my heart to join you and Bella in Hogwarts, and can you believe it that you'll be back here with me in a few weeks? I can't wait to show you what Polly did to my hair, it's not curly anymore, but nice and straight like yours and Bella's. I was so happy about it, but Mother told me that I will have to resort back to my natural hair before I will leave for Hogwarts, because curls are much more feminine and aristocratic, and that they suit me better. _

_I almost squealed out loud when I read that you beat Lucius Malfoy at your end of year Charms exam. Father may say that Black girls should be academically mediocre, but I am so proud of you, Meddie. I can only dream of being as brilliant as you or Bella when it'll be my turn. _

_Just yesterday Sirius and Reg came to visit, and I almost threw a tantrum in front of Aunt Walburga. Sirius snuck into my room and took all the clothes off my dolls and hid them in the house-elves' den. I was so angry that he ruined the clothes by dirtying them with what Mother calls 'house-elf smell and filth', that I couldn't help myself from taking revenge, and I told Aunt Walburga about that time he set Mr. Flint's backside on fire during the last Christmas dinner party. I know you will say that I shouldn't have, and that he's younger than me, and that it's not ladylike to take revenge on close family members. But Bella told me before leaving after the Easter holidays, should Sirius cross the line with me in the future, I was justified to tell on Aunt Walburga about that tiny little fact. Oh Meddie, you're not angry, are you? _

_Oh, I was about to forget. Mother told me that Guinevere Bulstrode received the lowest grade at these end-of-year exams. Is that true? How unfortunate is it that such a plain girl should also be stupid? _

_I will be counting down the days of your return. Yours,_

_Cissy._

The complete reunion between the three of us was more emotional than I predicted. I came back to meet a changed younger sister, taller and in much better health than the last time I had seen her in Easter. Knowing that from then on I would never have to miss Cissy's physical and internal growth brought a deep sense of relief in me.

The summer flew by; we swam in the lake, drank iced lemonade, cooled off under the shade of trees, attended tea and dinner parties, talked about everything and nothing in the stillness of the night at the Black Mansion. Bella, when she wasn't locked in her room reading voraciously and sending multiple daily owls to Rabastan, entertained the rest of us. When in the right mood, she was the life of the party, and that summer, she seemed to be more flamboyant than ever. She led us in exciting adventures around the mansion, coaxing each and every one of us to commit small rebellions that seemed to us like breaking the most profound rules of magic.

The idyll of that summer flowed through me like a refreshing stream of cool water; it came to its last drops in September, when I, flanked by Bella and Cissy on either side of me, crossed the Nine and Three Quarter platform and boarded the train for Hogwarts to start my second year.

Cissy's Sorting took a few seconds at the most. Royce Burke, a fifth year who was sitting right next to me, commented loudly as the Slytherin table clapped for yet another Black in its house,

"Blimey, Narcissa's Sorting took even less time than Bellatrix'." Bella threw him a dark look and he quelled under her eyes. I put on a happy smile in front of my younger sister, but truthfully, I wasn't at ease with her Sorting - or perhaps, I wasn't at ease with myself. I hated to admit it, but it hurt me to see the contrast of Lucius Malfoy's reaction at Cissy's Sorting with mine - he welcomed Cissy in Slytherin with a smile, albeit an arrogant one. Did my fragile, passive little sister possess more Slytherin qualities than I did? At that time, I found the thought threatening.

* * *

In my second year I defied Bella for the very first time.

For as long as I can remember, I collected. There has always been a strange impulse carved on the back of my mind, an impulse that makes it hard for me to let go. I am referring to the kind of 'letting go' that involves the most inconsequential of objects, from yellowed, eared parchments to broken hairpins.

Age five, and my bedroom hid the most unimaginable number of doll clothes. I had enough variety of clothing to be able to change each one of my countless porcelain dolls into new dresses daily.

Back in the day, visitors of the mansion seemed to follow an unspoken rule by offering porcelain dolls and attire to the Black daughters. Their house-elves would pick out the most expensive porcelain dolls and the most beautiful fabrics for dresses from the best Italian artisans, which would then be presented to us as gifts. Bella discarded them without second thoughts, occasionally keeping some to perform vicious, unpermitted magic on them.

She said dolls were "disgustingly inert", and reflecting now, I am surprised to realize just how early she started revealing her disrespect for anything that lacked a certain amount of living force.

Cissy, instead, loved dolls and clothes, loved their pretty, ivory faces, the elaborately crafted dresses and the lacey, ruffled trains. However, she only loved them shining new. So she punctually threw away those that reached a certain time span, leaving me picking them up with compulsive and loving hands. I stored the clothes in a doll-sized wardrobe, magically enchanted to pick out dresses for me, a gift from Uncle Alphard.

Age nine, and I changed direction. The desk in my bedroom began to disappear under the sheer amount of stationery I began collecting. I tired of doll clothes, and focused my devotion on quills instead. Eagle, pigeon, dove, raven, peacock… Even the rare hippogriff quill. Again, a present from Uncle Alphard.

It was during my second year at Hogwarts that I willingly went against Bella's commanding authority. I remember that surge of defiance as clearly as if I were reliving the moment in a pensieve. My sisters and I were lounging in the common room, and the atmosphere was unusually peaceful for a Slytherin gathering. I think that may have been due to the impending Christmas holidays.

Cissy was spacing out, an activity she excelled at, all the more for doing it in the perfect, upright posture of the Pureblood lady. Taking up more than half of the stiff divan we were sitting on together, Bella was possessed by the bouts of inspiration that seemed to bite into her veins and literally compel her to pick up quill and parchment. She never showed me those long pages of her hideous, characteristic cursive, and only many years of learning how to stand up on my own two feet enabled me to find and read her earliest political manifestoes clandestinely.

I was trapped between a sister who seemed to simmer in unrestrained energy and another who could easily have been a life-size, lifeless porcelain doll. And then I found it – a quill unlike any other, its feathers so white and fine that they looked like solid dewdrops. It was resting on the floor, and no one seemed to be looking for it, so I picked it up, delighted.

"Meddie, what are you doing picking up a Sugar Quill from the floor?"

I jumped, startled to find Bella's gaze fixed on my hand, but managed to say,

"I didn't know it was a Sugar Quill. I could add this one to my collection, don't you think?"

"Put it back where you found it, Meddie. Blacks do not pick things up from the floor," was my sister's reply.

As I snuck the quill back to my dormitory that night, I vaguely thought that despite having it drilled into my mind since birth, I was still uncomfortable with _the_ rule: Blacks don't pick up things off the floor. They always have them served on a silver platter.

**Author's Note:**

The updates' schedule is set for one chapter every week (Wednesdays). Thanks for everyone who reviewed. Your comments and opinions keep my motivation fresh, pushing me to write more and more chapters.


	4. Sirius' Choice

**Blood Thicker than Water**

**Sirius' Choice**

A month after Christmas break in my second year at Hogwarts, I received an unexpected owl from none other than Sirius, my cousin and original heir to the house of Black. The brief, almost illegibly written letter surprised me for two reasons. Firstly, even though Sirius would eventually start a massive epistolary correspondence with the members of his group of close friends at Hogwarts, he was renowned among his relatives for refusing, even under Aunt Walburga's terrifying orders, to write anything even remotely resembling a letter. Secondly, the letter seemed to have been written on disenchanted parchment, as it lacked the Black family's crest seal. Our households only provided parchment enchanted to instantly produce the family's crest seal upon contact with ink. This enchantment also alerted the heads of the family of any epistolary activity within the house.

Even before opening it, Sirius' letter openly informed me that he had broken the family rules.

28th January 1967

_Dear Meddie,_

_I'm in trouble. I didn't mean to hurt Kreacher, I swear. I couldn't help it, though, he was nagging at me for being a bad son, and that I should be crawling back to Mother on my knees and beg forgiveness __for the bad things I've done to the name of the family__. I just wanted everyone to leave me alone, but he was nagging at me through the door __and saying stuff like Master Sirius should be more like young Master Regulus__. I don't know how it happened, Meddie, but I guess I snapped. I gave him a beating, and I couldn't stop. He just curled up and let me do it. I only stopped when I saw he wasn't curled up anymore. I couldn't wake him up, and he still hasn't woken up. __Mother and Father aren't that concerned, they're just_

_Mother and Father think that Kreacher can only have been hurt like this by the use of magic, and they're convinced that Walden McNair has done it. They're preparing for an actual duel. I don't know what to do, Meddie. _

_Sirius_

Details in this letter do not provide a clear idea of what happened. As a thirteen-year-old, I needed three more clandestine letters from Sirius to piece the story together. The beating occurred during a meeting behind closed doors between the Black, the McNair and the Malfoy patriarchs. There was a history of hate between the Blacks and the McNairs: they belonged to the wizarding oligarchy controlling the extensive trade network in Knockturn Alley and beyond. That fateful day, under the supervision of Abraxas Malfoy, Uncle Orion and McNair Sr. were attempting to negotiate through their power struggle.

Walden, the burly eighteen-year-old McNair Jr. fresh out of Hogwarts, was visiting too that day, under instructions to stay away from Uncle Orion's study. He was known for having been suspended numerous times from Hogwarts, caught displaying instances of animal cruelty. When Kreacher was found half-dead after the meeting, my Black relatives leapt for the sudden opportunity to exact vengeance. Uncle Orion blamed Walden for the beating and used it as evidence for the McNairs' attempt to stain the Blacks' honor.

"They won't believe it's me," said Sirius, about a week after the incident. The Headmaster, Armando Dippet back then, had granted me permission to use the Floo powder to visit my cousin in distress. Oblivious about all the wrong things as always, Aunt Walburga believed my story about needing books from the main library and let me in their unwelcoming house. Sirius looked anguished.

"I don't think you can change their mind, Sirius. They _want _this to happen," I said. Sirius, who had been pacing around his bedroom, stopped dead.

"You mean they just see what they want to see? They'll turn a blind eye on me just to kill off McNair Sr. for their own convenience?"

I felt ashamed to be the one explaining just how Pureblood politics worked to my younger cousin. I didn't know much about it myself, but I had always known how duels worked, and how common they were among the higher tier of wizarding community.

"They won't go through with it if I show them the letter I wrote to you. Meddie, if you back me up, we could stop the duel from happening!" exclaimed Sirius, resuming his pacing. I remember looking at him, at his awkward long limbs. I wanted to feel at least surprised by the idea that Sirius almost killed a house-elf with his own bare hands. Observing the wide, sweeping movements of his already strong arms, the powerful strides of his restless legs, I could only notice his undeniable resemblance to Bella. I could perfectly envision him beating poor Kreacher, in the same way I could recollect my older sister's mad eyes as she beat a dying Diana.

"I won't back you up, Sirius. Admitting your actions would only bring shame on our whole family. It would only worsen our relations with the McNairs, if that can even be possible," I finally said. My thirteen-year-old instincts fiercely supported Sirius' intentions; my older and more jaded soul knew, however, that preventing Uncle Orion from dueling McNair Sr. would only mean sure punishment for Sirius. Something of this scale would bring about a punishment far worse than the customary fortnight's worth of isolation in the attic.

Sirius changed after this experience. I think he regarded my attempt to protect him as the ultimate betrayal, especially coming from someone he considered as his favorite cousin. What he never knew is that when, give or take ten years later, Barty Crouch Sr. requested Narcissa and I to hand in any letters sent to or from Sirius, the newest Azkaban convict, I lied again. This letter, written when he was just ten years old, would only have confirmed him as a natural born murderer. I locked up the three letters I ever received from my cousin and never showed them to a living soul.

It took me five years to decide whether or not to include this specific portrayal of Sirius in the memoir. My eighty-year old instincts told me I should. My desire to protect Sirius' idealized image, supported by the current History of Magic textbooks and by Harry Potter himself, told me not to. I concluded that a living Sirius would have firmly opposed to my tampering with history.

Sirius Black could have become just as dark as Bellatrix. He was a wild, uncontrollable spirit for as long as I can remember. No rules, no bribes and no punishments ever had any effect on him. After years of bad parenting, Aunt Walburga gave up on trying to educate him. The incident with Kreacher proved to me that Sirius undoubtedly had Black blood running in his veins. His determination to tell the truth, to prevent his Father from executing an injustice, however, demonstrated that he was born with basic, unshakeable principles. Only a Sorting into Slytherin would have been able to twist those principles in the wrong way.

When Sirius was sorted into Gryffindor half a year after the business with Kreacher, my sisters and I all knew, deep down, that we had lost him.


	5. Close Encounters

**Blood Thicker than Water**

**Close Encounters**

When the Sorting Hat sent one of our two male foils to Gryffindor, my sisters and I almost subconsciously began to look for replacements elsewhere. Arthur Weasley, a friend of mine and the head of arguably the most involved family in both Wars, once lent me a Muggle book on psychoanalysis. "It's always interesting to read about how Muggles try to make sense of their own behavior and instincts," he said, highly recommending me to give it a read. Based on what I learned from the book, the reason why Bella, Cissy and I all found a male counterpart that year can be attributed to Sirius' sorting, the moment he sealed his own destiny. Back then I believed that I, too, had lost him forever, unaware that I would eventually make his same choice.

"Where's Bella?"

Cissy and I asked more than I can remember during my fourth year at Hogwarts. As my parents were keen to point out, Bella had turned sixteen. This meant that she was losing the very little roundness left in her face, she had grown as tall or taller than most boys her age, and her clothes were starting to feel tight around her chest and hips. This also meant that she was about to enter the courting season, with or without her own will.

"Your father and I have arranged a Hogsmeade meeting between you and Malcolm Travers for the first weekend back to school," said Mother, a few days after the New Year ball, the one that Bella attended for the first time as a marriage prospect. She looked mutinous, but did not openly complain. A few weeks later, we understood why.

Malcolm Travers stormed back to the castle from his "date" with his mouth fastened shut by magically sewn threads, unable to cast a nonverbal counter-jinx. I was sitting in the Slytherin common room when he arrived, silently refusing to visit Madam Pettifer at the hospital wing, embarrassed by the fact that he couldn't undo the damage. He kept shaking his head, furiously pointing at me as though he could declare the identity of the culprit in that way. He needn't have bothered; everybody present in the common room knew that Bella had done it. Rabastan stood from his dark seat in the corner of the room, and cast Malcolm a nonverbal counter-jinx himself. I knew from the ease with which he cast the reversal that Bella had used one of the many disturbing spells and jinxes that she and Rabastan spent part of their free time making.

For most of that year, Bella made it so hard for her suitors that by April, only a handful of courageous admirers were left in our parents' waiting list. Then, Rodolphus Lestrange suddenly burst into her life.

Rodolphus used to stand remarkably tall and thickset, his strong body discernible even under his polished, perennially black robes. He was the older Lestrange son, twenty-six at the time he first met Bella. Father used to make occasional comments on Rodolphus, saying how he was "a pioneer," and "working for the right cause, _our _cause." Apparently, his involvement with "the right cause" justified his unmarried status.

He appeared on a lazy afternoon in May, asking for the whereabouts of his brother, Rabastan, who had sent him a request to meet him at the castle that day. We were all lounging about in the underground coolness of our common room, disinclined to get up and go find Rabastan, the only Slytherin from our group missing.

"You could try the Restricted Section in the library," drawled Bella, who seemed to be languidly sinking into the pillows of the only long sofa in the room. She was tall enough to require exclusive use of the longest sofa when stretching her legs. Rodolphus gazed down at her, lying lazily with an arm over her forehead. He looked interested and amused.

"Are you the infamous eldest Black sister?" he asked. Bella smirked and did not answer. The whole common room seemed to have gone quiet, as though Rodolphus Lestrange and Bellatrix Black were dominating a stage in which everyone but them were just extras. Cissy and I kept silent too, intimidated by the baritone of the older looking man.

"Why did you recommend the Restricted Section?" he asked, resting his weight against Bella's sofa, leaning towards her.

"That's where people find _me_ when I go missing."

* * *

Rodolphus' increasingly frequent visits to Hogwarts coincided with the moment when Cissy bloomed. I do not know the precise event in which Lucius Malfoy swept my younger sister off her feet. She never revealed much about herself, having mastered the art of listening and diverting questions away from herself since she was a child. All I know is that at the age of thirteen, Narcissa Black decided that she was to become Mrs. Malfoy.

Lucius never really took her seriously in his first few years at Hogwarts. He cultivated higher pursuits, actively working with Professor Slughorn in building up the massive network of connections and acquaintances, which would later serve his purposes as chief Death Eater, disguised as benefactor and public official. It would take Lucius three more years to realize that he preferred Cissy to the many other possible wives offered to him. It would take Cissy's whole seventh year to convince him that marrying her for love would not disrupt his ascension to political power.

I enjoy imagining Lucius Malfoy as a late bloomer, as slightly backwards for having struggled to marry the most eligible Pureblood young girl for years. If I'm honest to myself, however, I have to admit that this personal struggle might have been his only redeeming quality ever. He ended up loving Cissy enough that he married her only a year after my own elopement, when disgrace was still fresh in association to the Black household.

"I need to be perfect," repeated Cissy throughout that summer. She kept saying those words while looking at herself in the mirror one day, memorizing the more obscure Pureblood family trees, while Bella and Rodolphus took a walk near the lake at the Black Mansion, un-chaperoned.

"You don't need to be perfect, Cissy. You'll do fine just by being yourself," I said, in response to the umpteenth time. Even as I said it I knew I had no idea what I meant while saying, "be yourself." No one had a clue who Cissy truly was. She could adopt different faces for many people – and yet, she was never spontaneous. I was afraid she had lost her own sense of self.

"I will be perfect," repeated Cissy, who chose to ignore my advice. She practiced a small, perfectly executed, dainty bow before the mirror, and then resumed reciting the names of the Gaunt family members.

When we returned to school after that summer, Cissy began socializing. She started from the bottom, making friends with housemates in her own year. She then moved on to the older Slytherin students, using her charming laugh and her flattering ways to gain the appreciation of Bella's own year mates. By her third year, she had Lytton Flint and Duncan Burke wrapped around her little finger. Cissy also became a pet of Slughorn's, a professor she was determined to impress, considering how much influence he played in Lucius' own future.

She was the first to figure out her goals in life, and started preparing for them immediately.

* * *

"You seem clever. Can I sit with you?"

I felt ready and professional on my first day back to school as a fifth year, eager to tackle schoolwork and my new prefect duties. Across from my desk in the front row, Professor Babbling was preparing for the first Ancient Runes class of the semester, peering through her thick glasses at her notes. There were around twenty other students taking this elective, a small number, considering that these classes weren't split according to houses. I knew all of their faces, having spent the last two years in the same class together. Therefore, when a familiar looking stranger approached me that day, occupying the usually vacant seat next to mine, I was taken aback.

"Dropped Divination. Thought I'd take something equally useless but interesting, at least," he said, grinning widely at me. I stared at him blankly.

"In theory, we should already know each other. I'm Frank, Frank Longbottom. You're one of the Black sisters."

I immediately understood what he meant. The Longbottoms used to be one of the top-tier Pureblood families back in the day, before the heads of the house began advocating unacceptable liberal ideals. I remembered Bella scoffing at James Potter's sorting the year before ("Blood traitor Gryffindor, just like that Longbottom scum"). He looked familiar to me because he and his parents used to be frequent visitors to the Rosiers, my mother's side of the family. Frank Longbottom looked delighted to see me awkwardly recognizing his name, his blue eyes glinting merrily as he took me in. I merely nodded.

"I'm Andromeda."

"I hope you'll become my friend, Andromeda. I have two years' worth of catching up to do with this class," he said, rubbing his hands together, as though excited to start. His enthusiasm was contagious: that particular Ancient Runes class stands out in my memory as one of the most exciting, interesting lessons I received in my whole academic career.

I met my first and only real friend at Hogwarts at the relatively tardy age of fourteen. The usual pattern at Hogwarts is to meet your definitive group of friends on your first day as a first year. A late bout of serendipity brought Frank and I together, but only his genuine good intentions broke through my reserved outer shell, making me discover, for the first time, what it was like to give your whole self to somebody other than family.

Author's Note:

The necessary backstory of Andromeda's tale turned out to be longer than I anticipated, and this chapter qualifies as such. I believe the pace will definitely pick up from the next chapter onwards, when Andromeda _finally_ gets to meet the one really important character in her story. To avoid any confusion, I'm still sticking to the Wednesday updating schedule.


	6. The Mender

**Blood Thicker than Water**

**The Mender**

"I don't really know what I want to do, Professor."

Bella had warned me about Careers Advice before. She told me to nod at everything Professor Slughorn suggested, to indulge his natural tendency to imagine a brilliant future for the Slytherin sitting across from his office desk.

"He was sure I'd be picked as Beater at the Magpies' tryout. God, he's the last person I'd ever want to tell what I really want to do," said Bella with disdain. Her NEWT exams were scheduled at the same time I'd be taking my OWLs. Even with her graduation from Hogwarts fast approaching, I still could not find the courage to ask her what upcoming plans were making her so excited these days. I knew her well enough to understand that it wasn't the wedding that made her hands shake whenever she talked about the future.

"But my dear Andromeda, I thought _you_, out of all people, knew exactly what career best suited you," said Slughorn, looking as though he were swelling up from surprise. I felt annoyed. _He_, out of all people, should have known exactly what was expected from the daughter of a Pureblood family of conservative creed. Precisely once a year, usually around Christmas time, Father preached about the virtues of the "natural woman." A woman of honorable name reserved her energies exclusively for domestic duties as a wife and mother. Only "dirty-blooded" women stooped themselves in the pursuit of a profession. Slughorn knew that Bella would marry Rodolphus that summer, and yet he had pushed her towards a Quidditch career. Back then, as a confused fifteen-year-old, I found his behavior unsettling.

"I thought you knew from year one that you'd become a Healer," continued Slughorn, rummaging through a huge pile of pamphlets on his desk. I think I must have paled, because he stopped rummaging and asked in a concerned tone,

"Is something the matter, dear?"

"Oh no, Professor – I… I just wonder what made you think that about me."

"Well, your Potions skills have been outstanding from the first day you set foot in the dungeons, Andromeda. Such talent would be wasted elsewhere," said Slughorn. "And I also see that your professors have all predicted an Outstanding for you in Charms, Herbology and Defense Against the Dark Arts. Professor McGonagall informed me that you've always slightly struggled with Transfiguration. Nothing that a few extra revision assignments won't fix, though, dear."

I felt strangely devastated. Slughorn's belief in my potential as Healer filled me with an unfamiliar sense of empowerment. The fact that I had a talent I could use to develop and advance in a diverse wizarding community suddenly turned my future as a Pure-blood housewife and mother almost impossible to accept. As I returned to my classes at the end of the meeting, I remember thinking how overwhelming it is to feel powerful and helpless at the same time.

* * *

I was never much of an active member in the Slug Club. Frank took over the leadership role when Lucius "resigned," as a sign of protest against Slughorn's choice to extend membership to Muggle-born prodigies, the most notorious example being Lily Evans.

Lily Evans cannot be considered famous only for giving birth to the Boy Who Lived. Hermione Granger Weasley might be the only living witch who achieved as much as Lily Evans did during the years at Hogwarts. She was an important figure back in the late sixties and early seventies, standing as the prime example of Muggle-born equality, the living proof that blood purity did not influence magical ability.

"Evans drafted this new idea for the Slug Club," said Frank who had just joined me at the library, a few weeks after Careers' Advice. His eyes crinkled and shone as he smiled and said, "That girl is unstoppable. Thirteen years old, and already coming up with pretty good proposals." Frank pulled out a piece of parchment from his bag.

"As a way to enrich the Careers' Advice service, the Slug Club will conduct a private tour for its members at the Ministry of Magic, where Professor Horace Slughorn will arrange face-to-face meetings between the students and the representatives of the Ministry departments," read Frank.

"Seems kind of unfair for the students who are probably more brilliant than we are, but haven't had the luck to enter Slughorn's good graces," I said absently in response. I said this with Molly Prewett in mind, who sat by her usual corner in the library with her boyfriend, Arthur Weasley. I could see them exchanging notes while they studied for the upcoming NEWTs, Molly's Head Girl badge glinting in the sunlight.

Frank's silence helped me immediately realize what my words implied. It was the first time I had voiced my doubts in elitist systemizations, the very groundwork on which my whole family belief rested on.

* * *

On our last week of school, during that convenient time when exams are over and the fifth and seventh years enjoy some respite after their official examinations, Professor Slughorn decided to take the Slug Club for its first visit to the Ministry of Magic. He amended Lily Evans' original proposal by holding that, for efficiency's sake, he'd take the fifth and seventh year students only on a yearly basis.

I stood gazing at the majestic interior of the Ministry of Magic, while Professor Slughorn introduced the Head of Magical Transportation to Lucius Malfoy. I was no stranger to the details and events that led to the establishment of the Ministry, having frequently been forced to hear the adults of our family discussing and criticizing the minister's numerous errors. I was so familiar with the Ministry of Magic that I could have recited the Wizengamot Charter of Rights by the age of ten.

Ironically, due to our family's belief in isolationism, I had never set foot in it. The rows and rows of the fireplaces in the Atrium were glowing green every few seconds, from which witches and wizards calmly shot out wearing work robes. The ceiling stretched itself like a glittering, blue and golden carpet, and I temporarily lost myself in it, losing track of Cissy's whereabouts. I did not realize where I was going while I looked for my sister, so I found myself startled when my feet stopped in front of the Fountain of Magical Brethren. The sight of it did not take my breath away, as I had expected it to.

"It isn't as grand as they make it sound, right?" said a voice near me. I turned, and there stood a tall boy I only vaguely recognized as belonging to Hufflepuff. His hazel eyes had a lazy brightness in them, the same look I often saw on Sirius' face, and his lips were full, lending him an odd, child-like look. His entire appearance emanated an easy composure, a serenity that I had never encountered in anybody else.

"How long do you think it'll take them to add a Muggle up there? Perhaps scrubbing the wizard's shoes or something," he continued, looking into my eyes without the slightest effort. It took me a while to realize that he was talking about the statues. I glanced at the centaur, the goblin and the house-elf looking up at the witch and wizard with adoring eyes, and I secretly agreed with what he said. It would never have crossed my mind that this boy's words foreshadowed thirty years into the future, when the statues of the wizard and witch would be sitting on stone thrones placed upon a heap of Muggle bodies.

I disguised my lack of a prompt response by shooting him the Black signature look – the one I reserved for those socially inferior to my family. A haughty glance from the corner of my eyes, nose held discreetly high and a firm set of mouth. His reaction took me by surprise.

The smile he had worn from before widened into a full, flashing show of regular teeth. I was inexplicably struck by the fact that he had a very dimpled smile.

"I've been warned of that look before," he explained, still grinning. At that point, I had no choice but to speak,

"What on Earth are you talking about?"

"The Black sisters' death glare. It's renowned throughout Hogwarts. I daresay it has become quite a prominent topic of discussion between the non-Slytherin males at school."

I was confused. I have had my fair share of admirers, starting from third year. Bella had explained to me one day, wearing a mischievous smile, my Black patrician looks notwithstanding, I would always attract males for the same reason that justified her own popularity – we were both impossible to get. On the other hand, Bellatrix continued, Cissy would have to bear less of a nuisance from "the monkeys that men are." She looked much more approachable than us – fair and delicate-looking, boys would fancy her, but never obsess about her. In Bellatrix' own words, "Narcissa's fragile ways will leave nothing to their imagination."

"It isn't very polite to gossip behind one's back, is it?" I said coldly.

"Oh, trust me, Black. We males don't gossip. We only share very concise, very visual conversations when the topic involves women."

I blushed profusely. I felt both offended and embarrassed by such talk, but most of all, I was shocked upon discovering how little I knew not only about the other sex, but also in my peers in general.

The boy laughed heartily, in a most inappropriate way I thought, until Professor Slughorn spotted us alone standing by the monument.

"My dear Ted, I assume you already know who this young girl is? Her older sister Bellatrix is a member of the club graduating this year. Such raw talent in Quidditch, Bellatrix is. A pity she doesn't seem interested to show up at the Magpies' tryouts… Well, Andromeda here was selected for an entirely different reason. Quite a natural in Potions, she is. She's got the mind of a Healer, precise and calm. The little Lily Evans seems to be following her footsteps. And dear me, I was about to forget! Andromeda, this here is Theodore Tonks."

Professor Slughorn rested for a few seconds to regain his breath, and the boy took advantage of the brief silence to add,

"Please, call me Ted."

"I was downright shocked when he told me was a Muggle-born!" continued the professor. "Muggle-born and able to magically repair and fix anything he finds in his hands! He mended that eagle knocker at the Ravenclaw Tower when a fool tried to feed Doxy dropping in its beak. Quite unbelievable, I daresay! Just like Lily Evans, you are, Ted: a miraculous genetic anomaly!"

Slughorn kept talking, standing between Theodore Tonks and I as though he were the mediator between two people of different worlds unable to communicate with one another. Theodore, or Ted, looked at me with a steady gaze and an ironic, dimpled smile, and for a second, I believed that he too must have sensed how unnatural and ridiculous the whole three-way exchange felt like.

Author's Note:

Hi everyone. I know (thanks to the amazing stat function in every user's account) that a lot of you are viewing/following the story, and I'm glad and grateful that you are. I wanted to remind you, though, that leaving a teeny review could really make a whole lot of difference for my writing. So if you read and enjoyed my new chapter, be even more awesome than you are now, and please leave a comment! Thank you all!


	7. Two Parties

Author's Note:

This is a longer chapter than usual, and the reason is because I wanted to show Andromeda interacting in two completely different worlds. I'm eager to write a believable relationship for Andromeda and Ted, so please let me know what you think of them in this chapter. Thanks to fictitiousburn for being an excellent beta. Enjoy and please review!

**Blood Thicker than Water**

**Two Parties**

On the sweltering late afternoon before Bella's wedding day, I was at the Lestrange's country house standing between my two sisters, our backs aching for the long hours spent in the heat trying on the dresses for the big day.

"I still believe that Narcissa should be the maid of honor, Bellatrix," said Cornelia Lestrange, frowning behind her pince-nez, scrutinizing me with lips poised for further criticism. My fingers fluttered gently against Bella's, a warning to keep her already flaring temper at bay. Mother noticed Bella's balled fists and was prompt in her reply,

"Oh, Cornelia. You do know how Bellatrix and Andromeda are virtually inseparable…"

"I tell you, Druella, it won't look right to have the middle child as maid of honor. She looks too similar to Bellatrix, and that would only confuse the guests. Narcissa, on the other hand, would contrast Bellatrix' looks beautifully," said Cornelia.

I could sense Bella's anger boiling and threatening to burst, scalding hot. She had been adamant throughout the whole process of planning the wedding, absolutely refusing to yield to the majority's preference of having Narcissa replace me as maid of honor.

"The middle child has a name, Cornelia. It'sAn-dro-me-da," said Bella in a dangerously low voice. Cissy fidgeted beside me, which meant that she was very nervous. Cissy never fidgeted if she could help it.

Cornelia looked affronted, whereas I could see by Mother's tightened jaw that she was quickly thinking of a safe way out. Her thoughts reached a conclusion within twenty seconds, as she said looking pointedly at Bella,

"Why don't you and Andromeda take a walk out in the shade, dear? Narcissa, you can come and show Cornelia your wonderful landscape paintings, wouldn't that be nice?"

I immediately grabbed hold of Bella's hand, while Cissy sent us a pleading look as she walked over to her bag to retrieve her portfolio. I heard Cornelia's huffy remark on "the girl's incorrigible temper" before Bella slammed the door shut behind us.

"I swear it, if we have to share the townhouse with that decrepit bitch after we're married, I'll slit Rodolphus' throat open," said Bella, grinding her teeth. She paused and then added, as an afterthought, "And Rabastan's, for that matter, since he was the one who introduced us in the first place."

I kept quiet as we walked towards the open, lost in my thoughts. Bella resumed her attack on Mrs. Lestrange, walking so briskly that I had to jog to keep up with her. It was only when the late afternoon heat enveloped us in the courtyard that she noticed my troubled expression.

"What's wrong, Meddie?" she asked me, her aggressive tone shifting immediately into concern. I was about to head in the direction of the woods when Bella, with unswerving strength, turned me around using only one hand on my shoulder.

"What is it? I've seen you worrying and mousing around the house since we came back from school. Is it Cornelia Lestrange? You know she just adores Cissy, don't take it personally. She would rather have _her_ marry her dear Rodolphus if only a twenty year age difference wouldn't scandalize her ridiculous posse…"

"No, Bella. It's not about Cornelia Lestrange," I said, putting an end to my sister's impassioned speech. She seemed to relent, steadying herself, searching for the reason behind the trouble brewing in my eyes. I sighed heavily once, and then, in a tremulous voice, asked her,

"What will you do after you get married?" Bella raised an eyebrow, unbelieving that her post-wedding plans were the source of my brooding. She answered, nevertheless,

"Well. We're going off on our honeymoon - a pathetic thing Mother and Cornelia organized for us. A week spent wasting our time on some Greek island, or something. Then we'll go back to Rodolophus' townhouse in London, where I'll have to play the good housewife for a few months. And then… I'll be a bit busy."

"Busy for what?" I enquired bluntly.

"None of your business, Meddie," snapped Bella. Seconds lagged on in silence. She seemed to reconsider. Bella had her thick black hair loose on her back, and beads of sweat were forming on her frowning brow.

"I've decided what to do with my life, Meddie. Rodolphus finally recognized my talents. He himself admitted that I'm probably better prepared for politics than most men he knows. Oh, don't look at me like that – it's not the Ministry of Magic kind of politics that I'm talking about. There's… someone," Bella's sure voice was now a whisper. I remember feeling a chill down my spine at the blind reverence I detected in her choice of using the word "someone." She continued.

"There's this visionary man, and Meddie… I have never seen someone with so much subtle, effortless power in my life. He promises everything that our family has been advocating for centuries. I can be the first pureblood woman to lead the revolution – and believe me when I say that there _will be _a revolution. But in order for that to happen, there must be more followers. So… Rabastan, Rodolphus and I, and some others in our group… We're planning to go on a sort of recruiting mission."

That was the first time I inadvertently came to hear about the man who would later be known as Voldemort. On that hot late afternoon, Bellatrix revealed to me her ambition in life, merely the seed that would eventually bloom into a deranged obsession with power. However, all my sixteen-year-old self could decipher from those mysterious words was that my beloved older sister would be separated from me indefinitely. That prospect washed me over with dread.

Bella seemed to regret having told me so much, and to try to distract me she proposed a ride on one of the Lestranges' horses.

"Are you sure, Bella? You haven't ridden in years," I said, already running to catch up with her. She strode towards the stables, and said,

"Once you learn how to ride, there's no turning back."

She prepared the tack on a dark enormous horse, adjusting the saddle and the stirrups using deft, precise movements that had nothing to do with the violently delighted young Bella and her faithful Diana. The kick to start the Lestrange's horse sounded forceful, yet uncannily controlled. Her grip on the reins was tight, yet it lacked the brimming excitement that once shook her fingers, clasped tightly around the leather. That was Bellatrix, the Amazon ready for war; young Bella, riding for the pure thrill of the wind against her face and the speed propelling her forwards… That Bella was long gone.

Clinging to her with my arms around her waist, I let the tears flow, desperate to hold her back, to keep a part of her near me. But Bella rode on, and no matter how hard I pressed myself against her back, I couldn't shake off the feeling that the girl who used to waste her extraordinary talent in school had finally transformed into a woman, a woman who was steering the reins of her life towards her destiny; a place I knew I didn't belong.

"It's time we go back in," said Bella, maneuvering the horse up a path parallel to the river. I was glad that she couldn't see my wet cheeks – she would not have appreciated the tears.

No matter what happened between my sister and I in the future, I still can't imagine how there could have been a more beautiful farewell than that horseback ride on the riverbank. Everything about those thirty minutes remains impressed in my mind like the littlest detail has been carefully carved out on the stone slate of my memory.

In the end, Cornelia Lestrange's wish was fulfilled, and I never stood closest to Bella on the day of her wedding. Cissy looked breathtaking in the intricate dress tailored specifically for the maid of honor. Cornelia had been right – she did contrast Bella's looks beautifully. She softened my elder sister's strong features, making her look like a real bride, with all the vulnerabilities and the doubts that it entails.

I remember talking to Sirius months before his death, almost thirty years after this particular wedding.

"That was the only time I ever felt like I was related to my family. When I saw you and Narcissa standing near Bellatrix, who looked actually like a woman, for once. To be honest, I never saw all three of you as beautiful at the same time. It was usually just Narcissa, but on that wedding, it was actually like you were all one very beautiful person."

How ironic is it that Bella, Cissy and I looked more beautiful than ever on the day that officially separated us into our own individual molds?

During the wedding, I remember catching Rabastan gazing towards my sister more frequently than usual. You might not think much of this, since it is not so surprising to have people staring at the bride on her own wedding day. But it was the look in his eyes that captured my attention – he had eyes that shone resolute with triumph.

Many years later, it was discovered that Rabastan manipulated Rodolphus into meeting Bellatrix on that fateful day during her sixth year as an act of desperation. Apparently, he was afraid that if nothing was done, Bella would have ended up married to someone who would cage her in an environment completely incompatible with her nature.

Rabastan knew his brother very well – Rodolphus had been one of the first to become a follower and believer of Voldemort. The devotion he nurtured for his cause – the cause Voldemort initiated, the cause that warped Bella's whole existence – surpassed any of the prejudices so ripe in our backward society. Rabastan reckoned that his brother would realize how useful Bella was to become for the revolution, and their marriage would serve to both satisfy her family's expectations and also grant her access to Voldemort's gender-restricted movement.

Rabastan, the poor man, was in love with Bella, but he also knew that my elder sister's only love was for power and the Dark Arts. He was aware that binding her to _him_ with the chains of marriage would have ruined the singular relationship they shared, so he chose the easier option: keeping her to him by having her married to his brother. The three of them – Rodolphus, Bellatrix and Rabastan Lestrange – would later to be infamously known as the Cruciatus Death Eaters.

In the end, it was not only Severus Snape who lived hiding the fact that it was love that fuelled his life. Rabastan descended into the evil of the Dark Arts with Bellatrix, afraid to lose her if he didn't. He committed suicide shortly after Bellatrix' death in the Battle of Hogwarts, on May 2nd 1998. The Aurors inspected his wand after Voldemort's demise, and Priori Incantatem proved that he had cast the Killing Curse on himself just before Harry Potter confronted the Dark Lord for the last time. Rodolphus fled from Hogwarts after the defeat, only to be incarcerated in Azkaban, again, for the rest of his shrunken life.

* * *

"It's your turn now, Meddie. You're going to the ball for the first time as a marriage prospect."

Bella looked terrifyingly stunning, wrapped in a black, almost sheer fabric that seemed to ply her already flawless body into a captivating mélange of tautness, angles and felinity. I remember wondering whether I would still feel the rush of familiarity I always got by being held by Bella; her body had never been sharper, more defined. It would take me years to know that _that _was already the body of a warrior.

The Black Mansion's ballroom was an opulent affair. It was a circular, massive room, with the velvety rich, blood red curtains that seemed to drape the room in its entirety. As a child, there was nothing I wished more than dancing on the dark marble of the floor.

However, stepping into the ballroom for the first time as an expected guest was a completely different experience. Escorted by Lucius Malfoy, trailing behind the newly wed Rodolphus and Bellatrix, eyed with curiosity by the crème de la crème of the pureblood community, the room felt menacing to me.

_I shouldn't be feeling like this_, I kept repeating in my head, the heels I was wearing lacerating the tender, contracting skin of my feet.

"So, Andromeda. You certainly look like your sister's double, which is naturally a compliment," I heard someone saying, but the words drifted towards me as if from a distance. The relentless chatter around me became a buzzing sound in my ears, and the elf-made wine in my mouth tasted steely, rusty; the blood-red curtains seemed everywhere, as though to suck me into their depths.

Frank rescued me.

"Meddie, you look dashing," said he, saving me from Lucius' dispassionate presence. I could practically feel the vibes of disinterest he directed at me.

"The usual flatterer," I replied wryly, but I couldn't help a genuine smile from forming on my rouged lips. He had always been handsome, but for me the beauty in him seemed most obvious in the small details of his looks. His wide smile always reached his blue eyes. Those staggering eyes: they carried so much genuine emotion.

"Should I be worried that Tristan Avery is sending me optical daggers?" asked Frank, grinning happily as he spun me around with skill. The playful tenor of his voice almost relieved the pain of my feet.

"Unimpressed," I answered in a monotone, "You shouldn't care less of what Avery thinks of you. He likes girls. And what's more, he likes them _young_._" _Being Cissy's best friend gave me a huge advantage in the field of gossip.

"Well, then it must be that you look much younger than sixteen, Meddie. He can't take his eyes off you," said Frank, and I could almost feel the smugness pouring out from him. The Longbottom heir was like that - both pleasant and unpleasant, depending on the whims of his mood.

"Oh, hush. Look at Mother. Can you see her talking to Thea Rosier? They're evaluating how much the Black family can profit from my marriage to either Lucius Malfoy or Rabastan Lestrange," I whispered in Frank's ear, surprised at the bitterness I found in my voice. He looked surprised too.

"Oh, no, Meddie. You can't be telling that your parents are planning to arrange _your _marriage, too!" he almost cried out. I shot him a severe look and gracefully stomped on his foot.

"Shout it out, why don't you? Anyways, I thought you were a little more perceptive than your fellow Gryffindor friends. I doubt that I have free will in a matter as important as marriage. Did you know that Sirius' parents are cousins?"

"Hey, I didn't need to know _that_," frowned Frank, looking nauseated, "There are a few more pureblood males in our society other than Lucius Malfoy or Rabastan Lestrange. You don't want to marry an iceberg, do you? Or Bellatrix' long lost twin?"

I shook my head.

"You _are_ thick today, aren't you, Frank? I just told you Sirius' parents are cousins! Why do you think incest is allowed in our family? Marrying between cousins is the best way to keep the family line pure. The Malfoys and the Lestranges are the only families the Blacks retain pure enough. I really have no other choice." I had just voiced something that I had known since early adolescence, but had never dared to speak aloud.

"I will never, ever call you by the name of Andromeda Malfoy. Or Andromeda Lestrange, for that matter," declared Frank.

Unfortunately, our conversation came to an abrupt end when Lucius, prompted by the insisting looks of his parents, decided to grace me with his attention. I can perfectly recall the repulsion that coursed through me at the touch of my hand to his gloved ones. He would wear those silky, white gloves until the last day I would see him - at the Wizengamot trial of the war criminals after the defeat of Voldemort. He will probably be buried wearing those gloves.

After drifting for two hours among agonizing dances and good manners, I sought Frank out and almost begged,

"Will you take a walk with me outside? I'm about to suffocate here." He, best friend extraordinaire, obliged. But once we reached the grounds, me wrapped in a gold shawl, Frank clutching at his blue summer cloak, he suggested something that would mark the pivotal moment of my life.

"How do you like joining a real party, Med?"

I looked at him with an arched eyebrow, but I had always been one to play along, so I indulged him.

"And where is the exact location of this real party, my gallant Frank?"

"Somewhere in London. And wipe that indulgent look off your face, I'm not joking!"

I began to feel alarmed.

"How on Earth are you planning to get away from here? Neither of us can Apparate yet, we have no form of transportation whatsoever and the only possible fireplace we could use for flooing right now is in the fainting room," I enumerated all of our obstacles in a tone that I hoped didn't reveal how terrified I actually was.

"What about the fainting room? I bet there's no one in there, the party is at its peak right now," said Frank, still smiling. I let myself smirk at his naïveté and said,

"The fainting room, Frank, is the room where the women retire to when they're feeling tired. And considering that _all _our female guests are wearing corsets that are literally cutting at their ribs, I doubt the fainting room is empty right now."

I almost thought I won, but he walked me back into the ballroom and forced me to lead us to the infamous fainting room. I always regarded that part of the house as a minefield during parties. The women gathered there did not _rest _as they were supposed to; their painted lips moved in unison to create an atmosphere crackling with tension and unspoken hatred, gossip and scandals exchanged underneath the facade of propriety.

Frank deftly hid behind the nearest curtain when the women were all turned to the direction of Anastasia Burke, who was proudly showing off her daughter's engagement ring received by Sebastien Rosier.

"But here is Andromeda Black! How very like Bellatrix you look, dear," said Eleanor Yaxley, her yellow hair looking like a huge bird's nest on top of her head. It took me seconds to realize how irritated I felt by what she said. I was starting to wonder if people even differentiated who I was, or if they just dismissed me as the middle Black child, who looked so much like Bella but had none of her charismatic flair.

But I had to act fast. The plan Frank had devised had little probability to work, but strangely enough I had found myself accepting the role I had to play after only moderate resistance. I ask myself now if I was truly that reluctant as I claimed to be back then. I am quite sure that terror and excitement surged in equal measure.

"Ladies, I am very sorry to interrupt your conversation. I just _had _to escape from what is about to happen back there. I have been warned in advance that Rowan Vaisey is about to join the party with Nicole Selwyn," I said with unexpected confidence.

I had doubted Frank's plan, refusing to acknowledge that the women there were gullible enough to believe that the recently disowned Vaisey heir would ever have the courage to show up with his new squib wife. However, they reacted with such cruel excitement that I stood frozen in the room. They hurried back to the ballroom with a clatter of heels and a vulture-like expectation in their eyes. I was confused as to why I was affected so much by their reaction. And then I knew that I did not want to become one of them, one of the wives of Pure-blood, powerful men who fed on other people's misfortunes.

"Well done, Meddie," said Frank, disentangling himself from the curtains and clapping me on my shoulder. "Now, where is the Floo powder?"

I opened the heavy box containing the powder and threw some in the fireplace.

"Just call out for "Everett flat, London" and wait for me there, alright?" said Frank, urging me to go first. I obeyed, and what I thought before disappearing within the flames was that I had just broken one of the most prominent rules of the Black family.

And then I was in another world.

I had never been anywhere that was not at least as large as the Black Mansion. People swarmed in and out of rooms, and it seemed like every space of the flat was occupied for some purpose or another. The magically expanded sofas in the living room occupied the quietest of the guests, several of which I had seen back at Hogwarts. Most of those standing danced to the beat of a frantic-rhythmed song, and many were stumbling around laughing and clearly drunk.

The tiny kitchen seemed to be covered by bottles of what I suspected was alcohol, ranging from Firewhisky, wine, butterbeer, gillywater and mead to liquids I had never laid my eyes on before, such as the clear, transparent solution in fat bottles with the word "vodka"written across them. I grew more and more convinced that Frank had dragged me to a party hosted by somebody of questionable blood status.

He left me on my own, excusing himself with an apologetic wink, a warning to meet him by the flat's fireplace by three o' clock and a glass of gillyweed thrust hastily in my hand. I followed him with my eyes and saw that he had abandoned me in the middle of a party to meet a girl I did not recognize. He handed her a butterbeer in his charming way, and she smiled at him with a sweetness that I chose to mistake as falsity. I looked at the rather large glass of alcohol in my hand and downed it.

"I would never have imagined a Black attending Lucas Everett's parties, not even in a million years," said a voice that provoked an inexplicable tingle in my fingers. I immediately recognized Ted Tonks, standing tall while gazing at me with what seemed like a thoughtful expression. I sensed something missing in his presence, until I understood that it was the absence of the dimpled smile I had last seen during the Ministry of Magic trip. But he did not look unfriendly. Only thoughtful.

"And never would I have thought you could drink a glass of gillyweed like that, Dromeda," he continued, and this time he showed the dimples. I decided to ignore the horrid nickname that he had just randomly created, and said,

"I can attend whichever party and drink whatever I like. So please, go and fetch me something stronger than _this._" Ted seemed to believe that I could hold my Firewhisky, because he came back from the kitchen with the transparent solution that I so strongly distrusted. But before I could decline the drink, he said,

"It's Muggle alcohol, it's great. It'll warm you up." And I decided to try it, because knowing that Frank was moving forwards without me seemed to have left my limbs chilled with a frost that penetrated through bone. Ted watched me drain the glass without a word, and then I followed him towards the balcony. My body instantly relaxed in the warm sultry breeze. It felt nice to escape from the noise.

"So, Tonks, do you know who that girl is?" I pointed at the short, tiny blonde who was laughing at something Frank had just said. They stood in a secluded corner of the room, under dimmed light, their shadows far too close for my liking. "The one talking to Frank, I mean." He nodded and said,

"Yes. Her name is Alice Bode, she's in the same year as ours, a Gryffindor. A good person." He emphasized the last few words with a pointed look in my direction, as if expecting a defiant retort from my part. The Muggle alcohol was already beginning to muddle my thoughts, but I remained strangely coherent in my speech.

"I do not doubt her being a good person. Frank would never be so smitten over a girl who's not his equal," I conjectured slowly. I turned away from the sheet of glass and leaned my elbows on the railing of the balcony.

"You know, when I first met you at the Ministry of Magic, I thought you were intriguing. I was absolutely captivated by how little reaction I managed to provoke in you," said Ted, his voice mellow. I turned my eyes from the night sky. I came face to face with dimples and full lips.

"Well, haven't you considered that that may be because your existence is far too inconsequential for me to react in any way whatsoever?" I answered, turning my gaze resolutely towards the sky. I swear, I _felt _him smile wider. It gave me a shiver.

"I've discarded that possibility quite a while ago. As a matter of fact, I believe that you're extremely responsive when I'm around you. I've observed the way you act around me, you see? And despite your behavior remains restrained, I noticed the little things." Ted took a step back, as though he were appraising me. His eyes swept over my face and shoulders, slowly and sleepily. I immediately cast my eyes in the opposite direction.

"For example, just now, you are avoiding looking at me. You start searching for something in your bag, or start touching your hair or your bracelet. And I know that the reason why you do all that is because I make you nervous." The vodka gave me enough nerve to answer quickly, but I still couldn't get my eyes to make contact with Ted's.

"Merlin, Tonks, I never thought of you as stalker material."

"Believe me, Dromeda, I'm no stalker. You're extremely easy for me to understand," said Ted. This time I looked at him, and I saw in his eyes a kindness that made me temporarily forget the ice-cold manners I was so accustomed to.

Something alien was starting to happen to me. I stood frozen, but as I watched Ted taking a decided step closer, I felt strange warmth seeping over me. The boy, whose Muggle-born "unclean" blood was flowing near mine, considered "pure" and "untainted", lifted a scorching-hot hand, and cupped the side of my face with a gentleness that seemed foreign to me. I believe he had no intention other than to express compassion for a girl he thought was broken beyond repair. But whether it was the rush of alcohol in my head or a chemical reaction to his touch, I instinctively wound my arms around his neck and kissed him without thinking. At first, I was stiff, I was unmoving. And then I was moving. My form, first solid like an ice cube, welcomed his tall frame like the gentle curving of the waves, melted.


	8. Of Fate and Happenstance

Author's Note:

A new reviewer, savelis, made a very good point about the absence of Regulus Black in this story. I just wanted to clarify that he will play a much larger and important role later on. Enjoy the new chapter and please leave a review (for motivation!). Many thanks to my beta, fictitiousburn, and thanks to all of you who are following me, particularly manatocfox, who has supported me from the very beginning.

**Blood Thicker than Water**

**Of Fate and Happenstance**

Here's what I remember about sixth year at Hogwarts. There was plenty of denial and confusion, melancholy, longing, a deep sense of loneliness, but most of all, an unrelenting undercurrent of sexual tension. Yes, that was around the time I teetered between sixteen and seventeen, an age of awakening for most teenagers. That awakening, however, turned out to be a longer process for me than for others. I believe the reason was that mine was not simply a sexual awakening, but one that shook the solidity of my family's beliefs, the very foundations of my upbringing and heritage.

As per custom, the process of awakening began with that warm, slightly drunken kiss at Everett's party. I seemed unable to forget it, and I wanted to check if my behavior wasn't something too out of the ordinary. Before the end of the summer holidays, right before returning to school, I asked Bella to recount her first experience with alcohol.

"Merlin's dripping beard, it was atrocious," she said to me, wearing a disquieting smile, "Third year. Rabastan and I sneaked into his father's wine cellar and we finished a whole bottle of Ogden's finest by ourselves. I don't remember how we got back upstairs, but Mother went ballistic when she found out."

I could not understand why, even having suffered from my first hangover, I still remembered the kiss with Ted so vividly. For the first few weeks as a sixth year, I had no answers to the questions that rang in my head in a relentless, frightening rhythm.

_Why did you kiss someone you were raised to identify as a Mud-blood?_

_Why are you glad that Bella is not at Hogwarts anymore?_

_Why do you automatically look for him in the Great Hall? _

I was either too clueless, or I was trying my hardest not to answer something I already knew. I believe it was the latter.

Bella's letters grew scarcer every day, and the rare times she wrote, her words sounded strained, as though she were wishing to confide things she had to keep quiet about. I know that I only felt relief while reading the short, stilted, and clearly made-up accounts of her life as a brand new wife. For the first time in my life I was grateful about the distance between us.

My closest friend in school was busy too that year, unable to make much time for me. Frank was desperately courting Alice, who was to become his future girlfriend, soul mate and wife, mother of his child, Auror partner, and the one who would follow him into the sad realm of insanity. She had still not given in to his advances, and was treating him with a strictly friendly attitude.

I scored highly on my OWLs, achieving full marks in every subject except for an E in Transfiguration. Slughorn cleared me on my first day back, and I started the year determined to prepare myself for a career in Healing. No one except Slughorn knew about my new ambition, something that definitely added to the sense of loneliness I felt that year.

* * *

Despite the icy distance I kept from Ted once back at Hogwarts, it seemed that fate had decided to thwart my resolutions that year. The sixth-years' schedules paired the Slytherins and Hufflepuffs together for joint Transfiguration, Potions, and Herbology lessons, which ensured my seeing Ted every single day, excepting weekends.

"Hey, Dromeda. Why didn't you leave me your address at Everett's party? I could have written," said Ted on our first day back to Transfiguration class, occupying a desk behind my seat. Clothilde Yaxley, who usually sat beside me during classes, shot him a look full of disdain and said,

"Why on Earth is this Hufflepuff talking to you, Andromeda?" She looked utterly disgusted, her nose wrinkled as though she smelled something foul. The rush of hate for Clothilde, and a sudden, fierce sense of protectiveness towards Ted came on fast and unexpected.

"Shut the hell up, Clothilde," I snapped. Seeing her surprise and suspicion, I tried to quickly remedy.

"He doesn't know what he's talking about. He was drunk out of his mind at that party." I shot Ted a look that was admonishing and apologetic at the same time. He acknowledged it with a small nod. Clothilde raised her eyebrows and the class started. It was only after two hours of rigorous Transfiguration, which I found unexpectedly difficult, that I managed to find an empty classroom where Ted and I began our overdue clarifications.

"Listen, Tonks. I never gave you an address, because what happened at the party should not have happened," I said, staring at the closed door, unable to face him.

"How was your summer, Dromeda?" I heard him ask. I turned to find him leaning against a desk, looking composed and relaxed. I stared at him, wondering if he was making a fool out of me. He seemed to detect the hard look in my eyes, because he sighed and said slowly,

"Look, giving you a hard time is the last thing I want to do. I know all about what you Slytherins think is proper and right, and I also know that someone like you socializing with a Muggle-born Hufflepuff does not qualify as such."

I realized I had been holding my breath. His voice sounded soft, quiet, and somehow reassuring. I let him continue, knowing I had no words left to say.

"I'm a Muggle-born, but I do know how things work. I don't necessarily like these traditions, especially the inter-house hostilities, but who am I to tell others how to act?" Ted left the desk and walked straight towards me. He stood close enough that I could see the flecks of gold on his irises, a deep, warm ocher color that I only just found out I loved. There was no trace of resentment or judgment in his look.

"You're intriguing to me, Dromeda. My instinct tells me that I should get to know you." Ted looked away and smiled as though he found his own words amusing, and reached out a hand as though looking for mine. Before I even had the time to process the meaning of the gesture, however, Ted dropped his arm.

"But I don't want to give you a hard time. I'll stay away from you."

Ted, who eventually proved to be the most steadfast person I know, never broke his resolution. I eventually broke it for him, instead.

* * *

In early November of that year, Professor McGonagall, keeping true to her reputation as the toughest teacher in the history of Hogwarts, administered a mock Transfiguration test for her sixth-year NEWT students. We received the grade of the test, as it would be scored in the real exam. My _P/A_ (Poor/Acceptable) drove me to finally seek an appointment with Professor McGonagall.

"I know you work hard on your assignments, Miss Black," she said, once done surveying the dismal contents of my test paper. She looked at me sternly through her glasses. It had cost every bit of my pride to come talk to her, and I could not believe she was making it difficult for me. After a small silence, her expression softened slightly, and she said,

"Professor Slughorn told me you're preparing to become a Healer, so I understand that it's important for you to get a top score in Transfiguration." I nodded gratefully. She suddenly sprung into action, straightening herself on the seat and looking for quill and parchment in the drawers of her desk.

"Your best chance of improving is to receive tutoring from a student in your same year. I notice that students always do better when assisted by peers outside the classroom. I recommend you work with Mr. Tonks of Hufflepuff."

I almost laughed in disbelief. When I saw that she was writing a note on a piece of parchment, however, I came to my senses and realized that Professor McGonagall was probably the last person who would pull a prank on me.

"Professor, isn't there anyone else who could tutor me?" I asked. She answered, without stopping her writing,

"Theodore Tonks is unquestionably the top Transfiguration student at Hogwarts. Received the highest Transfiguration OWL in your year, and he's also part of the Mentoring Club. He is also your classmate. I wouldn't object if I were you, Miss Black."

_Tonks and Mentoring Club_, I thought amusedly, unable not to smile at the aptness of the combination. Ted was part of the unpopular Mentoring Club, known for how its arduous duties were always met with little to no rewards. Club membership at Hogwarts could sometimes tell you more about a student than his/her house. For instance, a student belonging to the Quidditch team gets invited to parties and trips out to Hosgmeade, whereas you can tell that members of the Wizards Chess Club like calm and quiet in the common room. Students tend to envy Slug Club followers, while they think of Mentoring Club volunteers as overly kind, overly idealistic souls who will end up doing charity work after Hogwarts.

The only members of Mentoring Club I knew of were Lily Evans, Sirius' friend Remus Lupin and now, Ted Tonks. Belonging to both the Slug Club _and _Mentoring Club, like Ted, meant that the student was not only gifted, but also selfless.

"I set up your first tutoring session with Mr. Tonks for tomorrow evening at seven," said Professor McGonagall, a tone of finality in her voice. She sealed the parchment, attached it to the leg of her owl and sent it soaring out the window.

* * *

We met on Thursdays and Saturdays every week for the rest of our sixth year. McGonagall allowed us to use one of her classrooms on the third floor, a small one for her NEWT students, situated perfectly above a wonderful view of the greenhouses. We met around the time of sundown, and the room used to fill up with a tender, orange-to-pink sunlight that, apparently, softened both my cold looks and my detached attitude.

"You're a completely different person when we meet here, you know that?" said Ted one winter evening in early January, soon after returning to school from the Christmas holidays. He had lit up the lanterns, having just announced that we needed a break from practicing the Conjuring Spell, which I had spent the whole holiday failing to master.

"What do you mean?" I asked, suddenly wary. He offered a gentle smile, but didn't reply for some time, as though he were debating what to say next.

"You practice so hard that you forget to keep your distance. You smile more often and you look peaceful when you concentrate," he said finally. He produced a bottle of gillywater from his bag, and said with a cheerful flourish,

"Your favorite, isn't it?"

I smirked against my will and accepted the glass. "What's yours? That weird vodka stuff?"

Ted gave out a guffaw, raised his glass towards me and said,

"Cheers, Dromeda. You're a delight to teach."

I vaguely understood the double meaning behind that last statement. Did he imply the innocuous teaching of Transfiguration or the covert teaching of his Muggle ways? I chose not to dwell on the thought. We took our time drinking the gillywater, and by the time I finished, I felt less discouraged. I practiced the complicated wand movement while waiting for Ted to stow the bottle away. He placed his hands on the desk I was using, so that he seemed to tower over my seated figure. But when he spoke, his voice couldn't have been kinder.

"Now, Dromeda, I want you to try the Conjuring Spell in a different way. Choose a simple object and keep it in your head. But instead of imagining it whole, try to picture it as broken, holding on to its different fragments."

I closed my eyes and thought hard of a shattered teacup, its handle, sides and bottom separate and broken.

"You got that? Alright, now try your hardest to think of the best way to piece those parts together. How do they fit together to make it whole again? Cast the spell with that image firmly in mind. Go on, try it."

I bit my lip in concentration, giving my best effort to hold the image in my mind while uttering the spell and using the correct wand movement. I didn't realize that I had kept my eyes shut until I heard Ted's whoop of triumph. I opened my eyes to see a small teacup sitting on the desk. I could see some jagged lines running down its rounded sides, and it was a smaller cup than I had imagined, but I had finally succeeded in conjuring something. I could not believe my eyes.

"It's all you, Dromeda. You did this!" Ted was laughing and flashing his bright smile at me like this had been my very first attempt casting the spell. He had that rare gift of convincing people that their achievements were theirs only. My chest tightened from a foreign, unbearably sweet sensation, and I had to suppress the strong urge to walk straight into his arms. Instead, I only offered him a weak smile, silently wondering whether Ted Tonks possessed the ability to mend not just mere objects, but perhaps people's souls too.


	9. It Takes Two

**Blood Thicker than Water**

**It Takes Two  
**

I often still wonder what Ted saw in me as a sixteen-year-old, confused Slytherin. I could understand his initial admission of having been "intrigued" by the myth surrounding the Black sisters. My dark hair and pale grey eyes merged with the Black family delicate bone structure in order to produce an unreachable kind of beauty. My family name inspired awe and fear, made even more interesting by the reputation of both my sisters: one as a beautiful and ruthless radical, and the other as the loveliest socialite at Hogwarts. I could make sense of why Ted, or any other boy in school, would have been initially attracted to me.

What I could not understand, however, was how Ted seemed to retain the same enthusiasm and keen look of interest in his eyes over time. I was aware of being uptight, quiet and mostly cool in the company of anyone who wasn't Frank or my sisters. I knew that standing literally in between Bellatrix and Narcissa required a special kind of sacrifice: having my own brightness partly dimmed out.

As the school year progressed, I did eventually become more comfortable around Ted, managing to meet his ever-steady gaze more often, and sometimes even offering smiles of thanks or genuine amusement. It seemed that Ted truly enjoyed my wry, dark sense of humor, which even Frank had sometimes trouble digesting. He reciprocated with spontaneous, often inappropriate jokes that promptly brought on furious bouts of blushing and reluctant delight.

"Does Lucius ever say or do things that make you feel like – I don't know… Like he can see right through your robes?" I asked Cissy on an unusually warm, gloriously sunny day in March, a Sunday of pure relaxation at Hogwarts.

The question sprung out of me almost reflexively, as a consequence of retracing every single step of an "incident" that occurred during breakfast that morning. I woke up late, having promised Guinevere Bulstrode that I'd meet her for breakfast in order to go through our plans for her upcoming remedial Potions sessions. I dressed in a hurry, not paying attention, throwing on my clothes in an uncharacteristically careless way. I reached the Great Hall breathless and with my hair tousled from the run, searching for Guinevere at the Slytherin table. I did not find her, meaning she had already finished and left. Instead, I found out that Ted was there, having breakfast with his group of tight-knit Hufflepuff friends. At first, I thought he was not really looking at me. He seemed to be spacing out, his gaze simply focused in my direction. He appeared to be hit by something. When he noticed my puzzled look, he himself shook out of whatever reverie he was having and lifted his goblet of pumpkin juice, making a toasting gesture and wearing a strange, playful smile visible even from a distance.

I instinctively looked down to check my general appearance. And there lay the answer. In my hurry to get dressed for breakfast, I had forgotten to finish buttoning up my blouse. To my horror, I realized, only too late, that I had walked in the hall in a state of undress comparable to that of those awful girls posing in Sirius' Muggle posters. I tried to throw Ted a condescending look, but I discovered I couldn't. I knew he wasn't mocking me. I was almost certain that his was a look of appreciation.

My question seemed to reach Cissy's ears like they had been spoken in an alien language. She furrowed her delicate brow, without looking away from the party guest list that Slughorn had asked her to compile. Then she said,

"Of course not. He's the best-mannered gentleman in the whole school. He wouldn't do that to me."

I let her resume her party-planning project. I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to understand why my sister responded to my question as though being looked at by a man counted as a negative, vulgar thing. I only knew that I had loved every moment of it.

* * *

Back in my day, Rubeus Hagrid, who still retains the title of Hogwarts' groundskeeper, used to hold a bonfire evening every year. He lit up a dozen small, easily contained fires near the outer edge of the Forbidden Forest, encouraging students to enjoy the beginning of spring outdoors. This was a hugely popular tradition among the students, who enjoyed the free days of the weekend grouped around the fires, eating, talking and playing games in the pleasant warmth.

"Don't get too comfortable here yet. We'll be practicing elsewhere today," said Ted on a Saturday session of tutoring. He was waiting for me in the Transfiguration classroom, sitting on the teacher's desk, wearing a backpack and a placid smile. I stopped right by the door, raising my eyebrows in a questioning manner. Ted jumped off the desk and swept by me, heading towards the stairs.

The evening sun was close to setting, and the whole castle seemed to be bathed in light. I followed Ted half-warily, afraid that my Slytherin housemates might use our proximity as an opportunity to persecute him. It was strange for me to discover that I wasn't too worried about myself. My fear of being seen in his company derived from the sure knowledge that my fellow Slytherins would only be too happy in trying to break him, and that was not an option for me. I had grown to care about him far more than I ever thought would be possible.

"Will you ever be bothered to tell me where you're going?" I asked irritably, when it became clear that he was heading outdoors. Ted looked back towards me, his walk slowing down a notch. His cheeks were slightly flushed from the fast pace of the walk, and his eyes shone bright from anticipation.

"Patience, Dromeda. You'll see soon enough."

When we reached the outer edge of the forest, I knew that our practice session would take place around the fire. He had found one at a considerable distance from the rest, so that I wouldn't have to worry about being seen. I wondered how he had learned to deal with my peculiarities so fast.

"I thought we should take advantage of the open space and Hagrid's fires. The fresh air might bring about your best results yet," said Ted, peeling the backpack off his shoulders. I looked at him, unsure whether to show my amusement or stay skeptical. He seemed to have read my mind, because he burst into laughter and beckoned,

"Oh, come off it. Mentoring Club doesn't dictate where we ought to be practicing." He sat down near the crackling fire and patted the grassy spot beside him, smiling encouragingly. I gave in.

We spent the first few minutes by the fire trying to discuss the best way to practice human transfiguration. However, Ted's supply of butterbeer and chocolate cauldrons and an overwhelming sense of nearness helped us forget the real reason why we had even started meeting in the first place. He had brought with him a salamander in a jar, which he hoped could provide some form of entertainment. Placed right in the middle of the fire, the salamander burned and danced around merrily while we talked. By the time Ted finished telling me about his unintentional displays of magic among his Muggle family members, I had already forgotten everything, including myself.

"They've always been a boisterous bunch, my family. Got good cheer and sense of humor, that's why they all tend to live until they're one hundred years old," concluded Ted, taking a swig from the butterbeer bottle. Earlier on, he had convinced me that I didn't need a glass from which to drink ("Everything tastes better directly from the bottle!"). Now I held the neck of the bottle in my hand, drinking less and less awkwardly each time I tried.

"I wonder if it's right to think of our strengths and weaknesses as hereditary. I mean – Are we all destined to follow a certain path, or can we make something out of ourselves?" I said, my voice coming out unexpectedly quiet. Ted, who had been lying on the grass, sat up a little straighter. I rested my cheek against my gathered knees, holding his gaze easily and feeling oddly peaceful.

"We're never forced into anything, Andromeda. Choice is there for everyone, no matter how hard it might be for some," he said softly. I smiled, trying my best to hide the sadness from my face.

"You might have figured it out by now. I want to become a Healer."

"I guessed that was your first choice, career-wise. What wouldn't I give to see you in a nurse uniform during your training at St. Mungo's," said Ted with a sigh. I bit my lip to stop myself from laughing. I knew that Ted, being aware that I usually closed down whenever the mood became too heavy, was lightening up the atmosphere on purpose.

"I think of the Healing program as the only way for me to save myself," I continued. Was I becoming a little too morbid? "Everything else will kill me, I know it. I'm a Black."

It definitely sounded dramatic, but I couldn't find any other way to express this deeply buried certainty. My heart felt full of bad presentiments.

"Madness and early death have both been unusually common in our family. My ancestors' habit of inbreeding certainly didn't help matters." I paused, half expecting Ted to recoil in disgust, or worse. He only seemed intent, leaning close to me as I talked.

"Take this salamander, for instance. It's genetically designed to live and spark really brightly while they're burning in the fire, but they die out as soon as the flame is gone. The Blacks are exactly like that. We let our own flame consume our mind. We do great things, terrible things. And then we die."

I stared at the fire. I felt strangely relieved to voice this particular fear, as it had sat dormant in me for years, building up a numb sense of inevitability meanwhile. From where I stand now, I can say that I hadn't been completely wrong. Bellatrix and Sirius are the two best examples of the inherited Black fate. I believe that Narcissa and I only _forced _ourselves to become the exception to the rule.

"That's not your fate, Dromeda."

Ted had spoken in a sure voice. His words warmed me better than the bonfire, enfolding that broken part I knew was deep within me like a balm. I let my hand rest on his large, welcoming one.

"How could it be? You're brave, and you think for yourself. You've developed your own conscience, and I know you believe in the right things," continued Ted. He lifted my hand and pressed his burning mouth against the palm, near my wrist. My heart beat so fast I was afraid it would stop altogether.

"You're not this salamander. You don't depend on the flame that you were born in to survive."

I wished I knew how to speak again. Pure joy wasn't something I had encountered often in my life, and now it suddenly filled up my whole body, making it unable to function properly. I could only look back at this strange, remarkable boy, who saw straight through me like nobody else ever could.

Ted had suddenly let go of my hand, shaking his head.

"I said I'd stay away, that I wouldn't make it hard for you. There go my promises," he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. He looked torn.

"It's not your fault Ted," I whispered. His smile became sad.

"Really? Because I was just about to tell you that I'm completely and madly in love with you."

I must have let my eyes widen; my looks must have betrayed the shock that I received from the sudden declaration. If he noticed it, he ignored it. Ted pushed a strand of hair away from my forehead, and held my face between his hands. I remember him saying,

"Can you really blame me for it, Dromeda?" before he drew me in for a kiss that could have went on all that night.

Author's Note:

Yes I apologize, this is the second time I ended my chapters with a kiss, it's inexcusable! :) I have to confess, though, that I had to do a lot of chapter restructuring and rewriting to do over the weekend, as I have reached the crucial point in my story. It's becoming slightly more challenging to write these chapters now, and that is why I really need you guys for advice/support: what you'd like to see more of, what you think I could do without, etc. Please review, you have no idea what difference that makes for me. Until next Wednesday!


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